Friday, June 29, 2012

New Erotic Short: 'Roids, Rumps, & Revenge' (Excerpt)


While you are all anxiously waiting for the release of SuburbaNights on July 11th - wait for word on a special deal on that one! - here's a new erotic short I wrote for Seventh Window. It's extremely filthy, and possibly even a bit controversial, but it's a lot of fun. Look at that awesome cover by my pal, Absolutbleu! You can get it HERE on July 2, or Amazon, All Romance, B&N, etc. Also, don't forget my horror short "Miss Locks" from Untreed Reads (HERE). Look at me! I'm a Renaissance man! Here be an excerpt:



Excerpt:
It was the damndest thing I ever saw, what got our coach put up in the hospital on the eve of what was supposed to be Pro State University’s greatest football victory ever. I was there to witness that game, and I was also there the night before to see how its outcome came to pass, trapped in the coach’s office and peaking out the window into the locker room. If I hadn’t a seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it. No sir.

Coach Mauler is the best football coach in the state. Ain’t no question about that. And he’s got the respect of all his players, including me. I will admit to having been a little put out with him at the time the events in this story took place. But that’s nothing new. He’s an easy man to get irritated with. A dick and something of a hypocrite. Still, I’m dang proud to be on the team. We’ve gone on to win the division championship three of the past four years. There’s no other school in the state that can claim so many victories.
Now, I ain’t a big guy, and I ain’t necessarily the best on the team either. When I look around at some of my teammates I feel downright tiny. I watch ‘em in the shower sometimes. Just to size them up, you know.

Chazz is the biggest of the group, with a dick to match. When he showers his cock swings from leg to leg like he’s a damn grandfather clock. His big dick head smacks each of his huge thighs like it’s angry with ‘em. There always seems to be a stream of pre-cum dribbling from the thing as well. Like it’s full and ready to burst. He’s got a girlfriend, but he’s never stuck that thing in her. Having heard the rumors of Chazz’z monster cock size, her own daddy took Chazz aside one day and told him there would be no sex else Chazz would lose his balls. But, dammit, anyone could tell that dick was just waiting to get inside of something. It looked plain pissed off.

Then there’s Jay, the quarterback. His dick can’t compare with Chazz’s in size, but it sure makes up for that in personality. He’s got the largest dickhead I’ve ever seen. It’s totally disproportionate to the rest of his cock. Kinda like a fleshy cork. Jay’s got a sweet ass on him too. I don’t mind saying that either. When he bends over to wash his feet I can see between his bubbled cheeks and there be a puckering hole. And let me tell you, it is wide open and ready for business. Shoot. If Jay’s ass is virgin then I’m Burt Reynolds.

Being in the weight room with these guys is difficult for anyone with a self-confidence issue like me. We got a set of twins on the team, Evan and Lucas. Nice guys with those bodies you see in sexy magazine ads. All abs and ass. There’s so much testosterone coursing through them while they workout that their dicks are as hard as poles. And God bless ‘em for not wearing underwear. Sometimes, when one of ‘em is on the bench press, I want to go over there and knock that dick around a bit, like it’s a weeble-wobble. I don’t think they’d mind. Those guys are always yanking on each other in play in the shower. Seriously. You walk in while the two of them are getting soaped up and it’s like a game of elephant. Twins have a special connection, you see.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Shannon Yarbrough: Writer of Note


Shannon Yarbrough is a fellow writer who is gaining a nice following. Just read below what the critics are saying about his writing. Plus, he's a damn nice fella! The book itself sounds damn interesting. Like a good holiday read.


By Shannon Yarbrough
ShanLian WordLit Press
Copyright © 2011
Paperback ISBN: 0984238336
270 Pages



About The Book:

A rape victim raising a biracial baby. A drug addict haunted by a dead girlfriend. A homosexual mourning a dead lover. A teacher having an affair with his student. And a businesswoman sexually harassed by her boss. What do they all have in common? They all sit at Lorraine White's holiday dinner table; they are also her children.

But Lorraine's children are not the only ones in the family dealing with ghosts of the past. This is the first Christmas the Whites have spent together since the death of their father. And it very well could be their last, as arguments ensue, secrets are revealed, and perhaps a murderer walks among them.

In his latest novel, Shannon Yarbrough explores the damaged soul of one small town family and breaks through the boundaries of love, convincing his readers that no matter how hard life gets, sometimes the support of family is often the only true foundation we have left to depend upon - whether we want it or not.


What Reviewers Are Saying?

Yarbrough's best book yet-a well-crafted blend of interesting characters, a wistful small-town setting and a tense family dynamic that serves up discomfort food for Christmas.
--Jerry L. Wheeler, author & book critic - outinprint.net

Yarbrough weaves the lives of a band of disparate characters into a rich tapestry complete with death, secrets, and murder, tied up with a Christmas bow.
--LK Gardner-Griffie, author of the Misfit McCabe series

From the moment that I started to read, I felt comfortable and that I had entered a family—with all of its ups and downs (and downs and downs and downs) that was still a family. (Think the Walkers on “Brothers and Sisters”). Love is not always evident but somehow I felt it was there from the very first page.
--Amos Lassen, book and film critic

The ties that keep families together ... and the secrets that threaten to tear them apart ... are blended skillfully as if a tapestry, by a talented author who never disappoints.
--Bob Lind, Echo Magazine

"Are You Sitting Down?" deals with themes of forgiveness, reconciliation, and a journey to wholeness, but Yarbrough's writing makes clear that death is always just around the corner and that despite the hope of family togetherness, each of us is stumbling through life alone dealing with our past and our secrets.
--Gabriella West, author of Time of Grace and The Leaving

About the Author:


Shannon Yarbrough is the author of two previous books, The Other Side of What, first published in 2003, and Stealing Wishes, first published in 2008. He lives in St. Louis, Missouri with his partner of 9 years and their five pets.  He is currently at work on another novel. Visit him online at www.shannonyarbrough.com, friend him on Facebook, or follow him on Twitter @slyarbrough.


What the Author is Saying About His Book:

While I wrote Are You Sitting Down? to expel a few demons of my own, I really wanted to break down the walls that family secrets sometime build up between loved ones.  I tried to push each of my characters as far as I could take them.

While the book and its multiple storylines are filled with tragedy, I still wanted the reader to come away with a positive outlook on the White family’s life and maybe even on their own.  More than one reader has commented with “And I thought my life was F’ed up!” 

I purposely did this by using the metaphorical themes presented by the two families – the Whites and the Blacks. Though their surnames are the most obvious, I also used their lives to represent good and bad, light and dark, happiness and sadness, and so on.

Each chapter is told from a different character’s voice to give it a real multilayered family drama feel, just like a soap opera. It is my intention that I hope readers will purposely relate to one of the characters in some personal way, or with the book as whole.

Sunday, June 24, 2012

My Ghost Story

I posted this last Halloween on Daventry Blue. It got such a wonderful response there I thought I'd post it here:


Growing up a Jehovah's Witness, I was taught to believe there were no such thing as ghosts. Sure, there were demons acting on behalf of Satan to fuck with us. But ghosts? No. How silly! It didn't hit me until much later how ridiculous it was to believe in demons and angels and an almighty bogeyman yet to not believe in ghosts. I mean, if you're gonna go out on that particular limb, go all the way, right? It's the same issue I have with people who believe in God, but won't believe in aliens. But that's another blog post altogether.

There have been times in my life that I have distinctly felt the creeping presence of something supernatural. There was a time in Rome where I felt, for lack of a better word, possessed; there was a time in college, staying in the rack room of the Phi Delt fraternity completely alone, that I was certain I heard a woman singing right beside me; and, of course, there were my hospital visions in 2010, most of those, I believe, past life regressions. There have been around a dozen or so experiences like these in my life that have left me scratching my head.

The first one that I can recall - and it just recently occured to me after years of having shelved it away in some corner of my mind - happened when I was a child, around four or five years old. I was with the fam at a get-together across the river. A get-together with a bunch of other Jehovah's Witness families. Can you imagine? Oh, the comedy!

Anyway, it was an outdoor thing, but the house was huge and the children were allowed also to play in the basement. There was nothing creepy about the house or the basement, though living by the river offers its own special ambience. It was full of light. The house itself was actually newly built.

There were a lot of children there. Some of them I had never met before. There was one girl in particular around my age who I took an immediate liking to. I remember her take-charge attitude and long brown hair, though I can't remember her name. And I don't really remember playing with anyone but her while I was there. We played mostly outside on a hill above the house.

Well, we came back to the house when food was served. I went to eat with my family and, after I was finished, went searching for the girl again. She was sassy. I was shy. I guess she balanced me out. I didn't find her and so went inside the house to the basement to play with the other kids.

Suddenly, there was a commotion. We were told that this girl, my friend, had taken a tumble down some stairs and was in a bedroom resting. I was so worried. I don't remember precisely what happened next, but I do remember specifically standing at the bottom of the basement stairs and looking up at another girl on the landing. I shouted for her to tell my new injured friend that I loved her. (I know, right?) Well, then the strangest thing happened. My injured friend was told of my great and undying love and was brought to the top of the stairs to hear it for herself. (Very dramatic, I must say!)

But it wasn't her. It was a girl with long brown hair and the same name as the one I had been playing with, but the face wasn't hers. She, too, looked at me as if she had never seen me before. I kept insisting, No, not her! The other girl with the same name. But everyone said,Yes, this is the girl who fell. 

It was a disorienting experience. I don't remember anything about the get-together after that, but I do remember being quite irritated that someone had taken my new sassy friend away. I never saw her face again after that. I have been searching ever since...

Ha! Just kidding. I haven't been searching ever since. But it was a very weird experience for me.

Saturday, June 23, 2012

SuburbaNights Gets a Cover!


Charlie Esquiaqui designed the cover for SuburbaNights, Book 3 in my Jasper Lane series! To be released July 11th. Woot! Here be the blurb:


On Jasper Lane, Cassie Bloom is gearing up for Halloween; Becky is expecting, and her father is overbearing and paranoid; Rick and James are their usual happy selves, though James has developed a porn obsession; Terrence is putting together an all drag cheer squad; and David is helping Cliff transition from adult film star to bodybuilder. Of course, that’s just what’s going on at the surface. This is suburbia, and its underbelly is teeming with secrets.


Like what’s up with that rather odd family that moved in down the street—the family with the big cross in the front yard who look nothing alike. Like where Cassie’s son, Jason, has disappeared to and why he hasn’t called. Like what on Earth Nanna Hench is doing with a scooter, a megaphone, and a clown car full of religious zealots.

When Cliff suddenly disappears, Jasper Lane goes on high alert. Terrence posts fliers, and Rick and James scour the gym. David is determined to get his husband back, but when he goes missing too—and with Cassie and Melinda on a road trip to find Jason—it’s up to Terrence to solve the mystery and save the day.

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

The List

1. Received the final edits and galley for SuburbaNights, the third book in my Jasper Lane series from Dreamspinner Press. It will soon be ready for release on July 11th. Woot!

2. My new erotic - and by "erotic" I mean "absolutely filth" - short story, "Roids, Rumps, & Revenge", will soon be released by Seventh Window with a cover by the ever dependable Absolutbleu.

3. My friend and fellow sexy writer Jim Provenzano won a Lambda Literary Award for his lovely romance Every Time I Think of You. I'm only slightly jealous, because he's such a nice guy.

4. Charlie David (Dante's Cove), who recorded my book Simple Men to audio book, is in the midst of recording another: Woke Up in a Strange Place! I'll keep you all informed as far as the release date.

5. Charlie Esquiaqui is taking on the cover duties for SuburbaNights. Like HVH before him, I think he really gets the mood of the books.

6. My short horror tale, "Miss Locks", was released this week by Untreed Reads. I really enjoy writing horror, so I think you might be seeing more from me.

7. Twin Peaks. Lost. Battlestar Galactica. What do these have in common? I was obsessed with all of them. Still am. Add another TV series to that list: Game of Thrones. Wow.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

EXCERPT: Miss Locks

From my BRAND NEW short story, just released Friday from Untreed Reads: "Miss Locks." It's a bit on the disturbing side. I think I'm finding a niche in horror. You can get it HERE or through Amazon or - soon enough - anywhere you download from:




MISS LOCKS
Eric Arvin






Virginia Locks, a woman of established career and notable grace, found herself standing on the walkway in front of her house. 

“What am I doing here?” she wondered. 

The night was still around her. As if it was staring her down. Up and down the street of old Victorian homes she could see there had been a blackout. This was strange, as there had been no bad weather. But there were no lights. There was no life. There was hardly a sound to be heard at all. Not even the night bugs. 

“What is going on?” 

Her career had made her a world traveler. She knew the ins and outs of every major airport and expensive hotel on earth. She knew where to get the best gifts and souvenirs. She had put off settling down because she just couldn’t see herself being locked in to one place for very long. But she had found this city on one of her many trips and had fallen in love with it. Then she found this old house on this old street. It was perfect and seemed as traveled as she. She had been living there for a few months now. In a place as old as this there were ghost stories, but she had never thought twice about such things. That’s not to say she believed in ghosts or didn’t. She simply never thought too hard on the matter. 

Virginia—Ginny to her friends—placed her hand to her chest, as was her habit when, on the rare occasion, she faced confusion. Confusion was not affordable when one traveled as much as Virginia. She wore a slimming summer dress, the one she had chosen for the blind date her friend had set her up on. The description she had been given was of a nice handsome doctor. At least that meant he had to be somewhat intelligent. Virginia had not dated in a while precisely because of the seeming stupidity of every man she ever met. But, no matter his intelligence, how would her date ever find her now that the power was off? She wondered if it was off in his area of the city as well. He would be there soon to pick her up. She decided to go back in the house and finish… 

Finish what? She was already dressed. What more had she to do? And why was she outside? 

Strange that there was not a sound. Not a single insect chirp.

Friday, June 15, 2012

New Release: Miss Locks

My new short horror story, Miss Locks, is now available!



Miss Virginia Locks has a date tonight, but something is wrong. She finds herself standing outside her home without any knowledge of how she got there. But what waits for her once she is back inside, a crawling, gasping thing, is even more unsettling. A short story. Available HERE or Amazon...or a whole host of other places.

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

What Type of Writer Am I?

What type of writer be I?

I've been thinking about that a lot lately. What's my style? What do readers think when they read my name?

I've been spending some time on Good Reads lately - that online library/chat room/encyclopedia - reading over reviews. Not just reviews of my own writing, but those of other authors as well. While reading reviews of one's work can be a very affirming hobby, it can also be a dangerous one. As a writer, one is bound to run into negative reviews. Some of these can be quite helpful, well-written, and insightful. Others can be vicious, as if the reviewer now has a personal vendetta against the author. They draw blood.

Some people have been disappointed with my latest novel, Galley Proof. While I wish that wasn't the case, there has never been a proven way to please everyone all the time. Some people just won't connect with me or my writing. That's fine. We are not clones. I wrote a book that perhaps means much more to me than it does to someone looking for a good romance.

A lot of this disappointment, I think, comes from expectations. Many of the less than favorable reviews come from people who have never read any of my other works. My writing, I have been told, is not typical. I write for Dreamspinner Press, a m/m romance publisher, but my books don't fall neatly into that genre. I have been lucky enough to find a publisher who believes in my work so much they'll publish me anyway. The best description of my writing I've seen so far was from a reviewer who said I wrote "gay fiction with romantic themes." I think it throws readers when they go looking for a balls out romance and pick up one of my books. They soon find my book doesn't follow a particular template. When you are not what people expect you to be, it's something akin to taking a big gulp of Pepsi only to find that it's really iced tea.

(Then again, maybe they just hate my writing.)

I hate the idea that I'm a disappointment to anyone. At heart, my books are about character more than story. I prefer the surreal and fantastic storylines to the contemporary ones. Of the TEN published books I have written, only THREE were intentionally written as romantic.Simple Men succeeded the most, I think, in capturing the genre's template. I tried again with Another Enchanted April, and then once more with Galley Proof. The latter two branched off from the m/m genre as I was writing them. I freely admit that. Yet I find them much more interesting works because of that. Anyone who has read the latter knows how personal it is. Sometimes embarrassingly so. It's just shy of a memoir in parts.

I don't have it in me, the ability to write sweeping m/m romance. But maybe that's a good thing. There are a number of master traditional m/m romance writers out there. As long as I have a publisher, I'll be happy to be the weird guy at the party telling stories that might be just a little off. I might not be the most popular cock, but I shoot one hell of a load.

Sunday, June 10, 2012

EXCERPT: Mad Bull & Glory

{Here be a very short erotic tale I wrote a while back. If you've read my book SubSurdity (not an erotic book itself)  you'll recognize the characters. I don't know if I ever really thought this would find placement anywhere. It's a tiny tale. But it was fun to write. Maybe I'll include it in a future anthology if I'm lucky anough to have another.}

Mad Bull & Glory
Eric Arvin
copyright, 2007


It would have been an exhausting day if it hadn’t been for the countless cans of Mad Bull energy drink he had gulped down. There was so much to do that David never even had the chance to eat lunch, just more and more Mad Bull. He supposed it was good marketing. He didn’t know; he was a writer, and this was just a job to keep some money coming in. But he worked for the Mad Bull company and he was at the bodybuilding expo which Mad Bull sponsored. Yeah. He was doing the company good while speeding his heart to ridiculous rhythm.

David rode the elevator to his room on the top floor, every so often taking a quick swig of energy juice. It was a nice hotel; nothing too special, but it was large, and honestly, what classy hotel would host a bodybuilding expo? He sighed. It was really too bad he hadn’t enjoyed his day, he thought. He had access to the backrooms, the back stage, the backs of these beefy showmen. Yet there hadn’t even been time to pause and admire the swollen mounds of oiled muscle parading about as humans. No. David was busy escorting agents here or family members there. Not a muscle baby within ten feet of his itchy fingers.

He took another swig. “Thank god for the drinks,” he mumbled. They had saved him from becoming limp and useless on the job. “Not one muscle Mary,” he huffed, watching the elevator button lights climb. One thing was sure. He was certainly never going to get to sleep that night, not with all the Mad Bull he had swallowed. He decided that he’d just have to look out over his room’s balcony, nicely situated over the pool. There would surely be some bodybuilders having some nighttime pool refreshment. With the lights to his room off and his adrenaline pumping be could stay out watching them all night. Those big guys would be just the rescue his libido needed in the form of continuous masturbatory fantasies. He was already getting hard thinking about it. He was glad he’d brought his binoculars.

The elevator stopped two floors below David’s nighttime rendezvous, and as the doors opened he was stunned to see the figure of one of the larger bodybuilders in the contest. His name was Cliff, or something like that. He wasn’t going to win the competition (he was perhaps too big and not strictly symmetrical), but he caused David’s maddened heart to quicken even more. He wore a workout shirt that hung from his massive shoulders, and baggy, plaid shorts. The man turned to David and smiled. David drooled, or at least he felt like he did. In truth, he said something pedestrian in the form of a greeting. He couldn’t take his eyes off the man, and he didn’t know if it was because of all his bottled energy or some true attraction.

Cliff looked at David again, kindly, gently, but with some sensuality. David tried to straighten up, to puff out his chest. He wasn’t a bodybuilder but he kept in good shape. His meaty elevator companion seemed to notice. His eyes covered David head to toe. David felt his skin going warm. Was this bodybuilder the type of guy to do some elevator sexin’? A pounding from him would break the cables. What a glorious death that would be!

But, as David was about to open his mouth and say something daring and worthy of the best gay erotic novel, the elevator came to a halt the floor below David’s own, and the doors opened. The cumbersome man climbed from the cage as David’s hopes for a wrestling match were dashed. He eyed with longing and heartbreak the large glutes as they as they took turns rising and falling, both still visible beneath the baggy shorts. Seeming to feel the stare, the bodybuilder turned around, playfully nodding an invitation back to his room. At the site of that grin, David pulled the closing elevator doors apart with more ease than a superman who’s had a whole can of spinach or carrots or whatever it was that supermen ate.

David tried not to follow too quickly or closely down the quiet midnight hallway, but this was the chance of a lifetime. To be the bottom boy of a towering muscle man; what guy wouldn’t want that? Maybe there’d be some hot muscle worshipping.

After a few seconds of respectable, if torturous, waiting once the bodybuilder had gone into his room, David slipped in through the propped door. His body tingled from the anticipation of being topped by such a man. His thoughts of himself as bottom boy vanished, however, as he came fully into the room. The bodybuilder’s clothing had been quickly shed to the floor, and the man himself was positioned on the bed on all fours, his beautiful ass shot proudly in the air, cheeks wide and gorgeous.

The nearly empty can of Mad Bull fell from David’s hand as he stared in disbelief – and sheer joy. He almost bounded out of his khakis, his eyes focused on the sight in front of him. His dick had never been as painfully erect, and in his mind came one thought: Fuck foreplay!

He found it surprisingly easy to gain entrance between the two palm-exceeding cheeks, but the well-used hole still provided extraordinarily sufficient pleasure. David felt as if his head was going to explode as he grabbed and clawed at the Cliff’s sculpted ass. He had never pumped so hard and so fast in his life. Surely, his speed would have killed a normal man. The Mad Bull had turned him into a frenzied, fast-forward fucking machine. The muscleman groaned and gasped loudly as his own body blurred from the rapid fire fucking he was receiving. David couldn’t tell if Cliff was saying “ho”, “go”, or “no”. At this point, with his head in ecstatic revelry, he didn’t care. The slapping of flesh, the noises of fucktasia coming from the bodybuilder, David was certain that when he did cum he was going to blast a hole through the wall. Their bodies shook, the bed shook, the room shook. David lifted Cliff in the air, going deep into his guts with loving rage. Cliff cried as if he were a virgin boy.

This Mad Bull was superhuman elixir. Market that! That’ll raise sales.

David felt the crescendo approaching. He leaned them both forward, pulling on his ride’s hair, and let loose with a stream of cum that, he was certain, had never been witnessed before by the boring walls of the room. Both he and the bodybuilder let out gaping cries of satisfaction before falling to the soaked sheets of the bed. 

They both lay there for a bit, silent and entranced by the remnants of euphoria. David was still hard. His cock lay against the Cliff’s ass. Every so often it would jerk as if straining to regain entrance to the bodybuilder.

The muscleman made a motion to rise. “You want something to drink?” he nodded to a corner which held cases of complimentary Mad Bull. He gave a grin of appreciation. “I can’t stomach the stuff myself. And I can stomach a lot.”

He rose (the bed jumped up in relief) and walked, albeit with a slightly wobbly gait, to the balcony. David watched him with lust and tenderness as he leaned out naked over the railing. The light from the room shone on the beautiful flesh of Cliff’s ass. David felt his cock wanting, uncontrolled. He looked to the corner at the cases of Mad Bull, then back at the great piece of art on the balcony.

“A superhero’s work is never done,” he said to himself.

Wonderful review of "She's Come Undone"

Ro-Always Inspired: SHORT STORY REVIEW: She’s Come Undone by Eric Arvin          Publisher: Untreed Reads Publishing (March 19, 2012)         ASIN: B007MTPEQW Rating: ★★★★ ★ Ju...

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Men...Men with Penises

What is it that makes a man attractive?

For me, the answer to that question has changed over the years, as it should. The only thing that every man I have ever been attracted to has had in common is their essence of masculinity. This essence has really nothing to do with sex organs or the size of them, but is rather that certain sense of male-ness. Let me see if I can explain: There's a whole subgenre within a subgenre of gay erotica in which the male hero - a Superman type with bulging muscles - through whatever means, ends up with a vagina. His wiener be gone or pushed inside his frame, and he sportin' the cooter. Once I got past my initial shock at this idea, I found I wasn't too disturbed by it. Superman was still hot, even with a woo-hoo instead of a dingle-dong. His masculinity was still hanging out even if his balls weren't. The Masculine Mystique.

Still, masculine essence a given, my attractions have changed beyond that. My first erotic memory was about Bo Duke. You know. One of the good ol' boys riding around in the General Lee. Ick. This is strange for me since I'm usually not attracted to blonds. Occasionally I'll see one and be wowed, but that's a random occurrence. I much prefer darker-haired men.

For a large part of my life I was all about the boy next door look. Clean cut and handsome. I had a junior high math teacher who exemplified this look and who was positively distracting in his khakis. I remember watching his baseball trained ass wiggle as he wrote out math problems on the chalkboard. My distraction may be why I never made above a C in his class. Oh, Mr. Eckert...

I also found my interest in beefy musclemen around that time. My fantasies included adventures with huge stacks of hard beef. I even expiramented with drawing them. My art was actually quite good for an amateur. I was no Patrick Fillion, but... I felt bad about my pervy sketchings, though, and one day burned them up in the wood stove. Can you believe that? I shake my head over it to this day. I went for the hairless kind of muscle man then, with a near zero percentage of body fat. Hair at the time seemed an impediment to the muscle beneath. I liked my guys rippled and glistening, and, apparently, starving.

This attraction to the All-American guy grew in college to include the football types I worked out with in the gym. But I also became interested in the fit but nerdy guys. A hot guy reading a book with his glasses on stirred my loins. Still does.

My taste now has matured a bit. Pretty young collegiate things are still pretty. Don't get me wrong. But they're not what I find myself attracted to anymore. It has something to do with life experience. A few more wrinkles on the face can be very sexy. A little gray in the hair can make a man all the more attractive, especially if he's taken good care of his body. Last year I played around with a couple of older guys (though, not at the same time), and one of them ranks as the most erotic experience I've ever had. I refuse to name names...yet. Wait for the memoir.

Too, I've found that I rather like a guy with body hair now. Beards may exfoliate my sensitive skin, but they're so hot! And I even like a little fuzz on the bum. That was a major "ew" ten years ago. It's strange how that in particular has changed. Hehe. Fuzzy bums.

Men are amazing. Really. Right down to our often oddly shaped, but adorable penises. Speaking of, I had a gal pal in college who once told me that she thought penises were hideous things. That they were ugly and gross. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. My reaction was, if you don't like 'em leave 'em alone. More for me. And then...

But that's a whole other tale.

Sunday, June 3, 2012

'SuburbaNights' gets a Blurb!


Here it be! The blurb for SuburbaNights, book 3 in my Jasper Lane series that started with Subsurdity. The new book will be out July 11th from Dreamspinner Press. Get excited! It's been a long wait.

On Jasper Lane, Cassie Bloom is gearing up for Halloween; Becky is expecting, and her father is overbearing and paranoid; Rick and James are their usual happy selves, though James has developed a porn obsession; Terrence is putting together an all drag cheer squad; and David is helping Cliff transition from adult film star to bodybuilder. Of course, that’s just what’s going on at the surface. This is suburbia, and its underbelly is teeming with secrets.


Like what’s up with that rather odd family that moved in down the street—the family with the big cross in the front yard who look nothing alike. Like where Cassie’s son, Jason, has disappeared to and why he hasn’t called. Like what on Earth Nanna Hench is doing with a scooter, a megaphone, and a clown car full of religious zealots.

When Cliff suddenly disappears, Jasper Lane goes on high alert. Terrence posts fliers, and Rick and James scour the gym. David is determined to get his husband back, but when he goes missing too—and with Cassie and Melinda on a road trip to find Jason—it’s up to Terrence to solve the mystery and save the day.

Saturday, June 2, 2012

EXCERPT: Cloud Touching Mountain

This one will go in my next anthology, if I'm ever lucky enough to be offered another:

Cloud Touching Mountain
Eric Arvin
copyright 2007


Cloud touching mountain. High above the plains. Casting its shadow so far the sun can be forgotten. It stretches to the ends of everything. At least to the ends of anything I know. I don’t get far. I stay with my fields. They need tending to.

I watched from the farthest field; the one with the freshest upturned soil. So many things had disappeared into that mountain. All my life I had seen things leave that way. But this was the first time it ever affected me so tremendously. I lost something when he left. Something I never realized I had had to begin with. None of the other men mattered this much to me. But he did, and I couldn’t see it until he left. Not clearly anyway. Stupidity is so ignorant. What we see, what we don’t see. We are born equipped, I think, with life-blinders. Only a few of us ever shed them, and then it is usually too late.

For a while I didn’t know what I had seen. Was he truly gone? He had said he would leave, but he had said that hundreds of times before. I asked, Do you want me? Don’t you want to be with me?

He never replied. Not with words.

He did not want what I wanted. Not in the way that I wanted it.

The last I saw he was a shadow climbing, a silhouette disappearing upward. Into the clouds. Like an angel taking the hard way home to Heaven. Or a devil trying to sneak in by some cunning mortal trick.

I had to follow. There was nothing for it. My fears of everything else were overshadowed by my fear of losing him. Love is the worst thing. Painfully pulling us this way and that, jerking us around like rag dolls. I hate love.

Love is both Life and Death. I could never explain that adequately enough to the other men. The ones who worked my fields before.

There was no way I could even think of heading back home now. Not without him. It would be like a house without a roof. Did he love me at all?

I could have taken care of him. He didn’t have to leave. I take care of my fields. I took care of the other men.

Hearing my heart, the fear too real, I kick through the dirt and dust toward the mountain. Toward the white billows of cloud that crown its height. Maybe he’ll be there. Maybe that’s where he’s headed. To the very top, then he’ll stop because he can go no farther. Maybe he’ll scream at God. Maybe I will when I get there too.

What had he been trying to tell me? He had been silent for so long. His eyes spoke their own language. I just couldn’t decipher what they were saying. You would think if it were love, if it were real love, I would be able to know what he meant without him uttering a single syllable. One glance and I would know. But we were still a mystery to one another. We’re all mysteries looking for our solutions in the reflection of another’s eyes.

I hate love.

I thought he was sick. I thought that’s what he was saying. Maybe I was wrong. I should have asked him outright. Why are you leaving me? Stay and help me tend the fields. But he only stared back with an expression of…what was it? Fear? Resistance? Discovery?

Signs. There are always signs. Except when their too quiet, too subtle. Then they’re just gestures. Then you need sign language. But there again, I’ve never been too good at other languages. The language of love. Isn’t that what some aching poet called it? Well, it’s a cryptic, secret thing this language of love. There are no right words. It changes daily.

Kisses and touch. That’s a language. Tenderness. I was well-versed, I think, in that. Perhaps he disagreed. Perhaps that mountain is a metaphor; a big, tall symbol I have to climb over.

Come back! Don’t go so high. So far up. So out of sight and gone. I see you now. Maybe I didn’t before, but I do now.

Love is a battlefield. Love hurts. Love kills. Love is all those clich├ęs because it’s a vicious emotion. It feeds off us like a sweet parasite. We carry it. We are its hosts and it feeds off us. Once we’ve had it we can’t live without it. Say no to drugs but whatever you do fall in love.

I thought I was in love before with every one of those other men. They helped me tend my fields. They help me still. But that wasn’t love. That was companionship.

Falling. I hope he doesn’t fall. How would I live? Would it be better to have him dead? Or alive somewhere in the world…without me? It’s a question for a psychopath. For a lovesick obsessive.

Each of my fields has a name. Each is named for a man I thought I loved.

What if I killed him? What if I found him and he spoke? What if he told me he was running from me? From me? I think I would kill him. No one else could have him. No one else would feel him inside them, on top of them, under them. He came into me first. His world and mine in that one beautiful moment and I begged him to stay. He agreed because I gave him what he needed. But it was he who planted the seed.

And now he wants to leave me. I could kill him. I could take a rock and bash his ungrateful brains in. His beautiful, lovely, ungrateful brains.

There are some rocks in my fields. Each field has a pile of them, and each a wooden cross in the center of with a name of a man I thought I loved.

I’ll find him. But I won’t kill him. I’ll knock him out and take him back. He’ll stay. I’ll force him to stay. This one is different.

He is blinded by obstacles is all. I see clearly. I see by love.